


The Sweetest Sourwolf on Campus

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Flirting, Collage, Derek is a Failwolf, Derek-centric, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Oblivious Derek, One Shot, Scent Marking, Scott your stupid manscent ruins things, Stiles Likes To Bake, Stiles Stilinski Likes Derek Hale, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the most annoying person Derek's ever met in his entire life. </p><p>That's not really an excuse to be such a jerk, but he can't help it, something's weird about this guy.</p><p>[College AU. Freshmen Stiles. Werewolves ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetest Sourwolf on Campus

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all around 5AM, so...
> 
> I'm sorry.

 

Derek knew the exact moment he began to hate Stiles Stilinski, because it was the same moment he met him. Or, rather, the moment that word-cesspit of a kid opened his mouth. 

 

"Wow, so that's what they mean by a brick shit-house." 

 

Derek had only managed to blink at him at first, his mind flipping through any and all reasons this random weirdo was talking to him in the first place, never mind the shit-house comment. He had just been leaving his class when he was stopped by a red-sweatshirt wearing freshmen, with big, brown eyes, and spew of nonsense.

 

"Excuse me?" He tried.

 

"I get the whole 'lettin' it all hang out' bit, too," the weirdo continued, eyes raking over Derek's body with a creepy sort of hunger to them. 

 

"Okay, I don't know you, and I don't want to know you, so how about you and your skinny-ass weirdness go in another direction." 

 

It wasn't a suggestion, _he_ knew it wasn't a suggestion. Weirdo, however, did not know it wasn't a suggestion. 

 

"Hey, you noticed my ass already?" 

 

"I wasn't aware you actually had one."

 

"I sit right in front of you in class, dude, i'm pretty sure you're aware of its existence," he replied, shrugging like it was no big deal, and grinning like it was front page news. 

 

"Sorry, I didn't pay attention to the microorganism seated in front of me, was that you?" Derek sneered, no longer amused. Wait, he was never amused about this. 

 

The kid winced, and maybe there was a little hurt there, but Derek honestly Did. Not. Care. He needed to meet Laura five minutes ago, and thanks to this freak and that damn red head in class making the teacher explain the symbolism of the oranges on the table _again_ , he was late. 

 

"Look, i'm sure the other procaryotes think you're funny and totally want to make bacteria babies with you," Derek began, already backing away. "But us more _evolved_ creatures need more to stimulate us." 

 

The kid snorted loudly—too loudly—and crossed his arms over his chest like he was holding his guts in. 

 

"Right, i'm sure a guy who makes that many references to our dearest ancestors-of-the-ooze is such a hit with all the ladies."

 

Derek shrugged, and turned to walk away.  He didn't need to explain anymore, that was a pretty thorough shut down, if the fake laugh was a indication. 

There was no way a loser like that was going to come bouncing back anytime soon. 

 

_________

 

As it turned out, he was really, really wrong. 

 

Derek didn't even know his name yet, and yet somehow this kid was making his life hell. 

 

"Look, I just wanted to—"

 

"Please," Derek gritted out, holding a folder in front of his face. "Stop subjecting me to your existence. Don't you have other skinny creeps to hang out with?"

 

The folder smushed into his face thanks to skinny-little-shit shoving a hand into it, and Derek caught a second of a frustrated glare before something else was shoved in his face. 

 

"These are for you, because you're the sweetest _asshole_ on campus. Congrats." 

 

Derek fumbled for it—reflexes, he can't just let something fall—and before he could even get a look at the thing, skinny-little-shit was stomping down the hall and out of sight. 

 

And he was left with a bag of homemade cookies in his hand and weird feeling in his stomach. 

 

_Guilt?_

 

_Nah, probably the creeps. Who gives homemade food to a person who hates you?_

 

Because that's what Derek did, he hated that guy. 

 

_______

 

The cookies were really, really good, and he had no excuses at all for eating them. They were like little, round, buttery mounds of deliciousness.  

 

They were just really, really good. 

 

__________

 

Laura had a way of dominating his life without even being _in_ his life. Well, she'd always be in his life, but it wasn't like the old days, when they were kids and spent nearly every day together. Back then, he was never alone, he always had family around him. He always felt comfortable in his own skin, in his own mind. 

 

Now, it was a struggle to remember to act human sometimes, especially when Laura started getting bossy at him again. 

 

"You're not eating," was the first thing she said when he sat down across from her. It was the same cafe they always met in, the one with the weird wooden fish above the door, that smelled suspiciously like alcohol at all times of the day. 

 

"I'm not hungry right now." 

 

"I mean: you're not eating _enough_." 

 

Derek grumbled under his breath about overbearing sisters and how college means eating ramen and peanut butter and regretting it later in life. 

 

"I'm fine, stop trying to feed me all the time," he snapped, hiding his face behind his coffee so he didn't have to see that look she always got. 

 

He hurt her, but sometimes he just couldn't stand the roll she had taken after their family died. She shouldn't have had to become more than a sister, she didn't have to be his mother, too. Derek really didn't want that, especially now that he was working on his own life out here. 

 

"Derek, you have to take care of yourself, you're not impregnable," she argued. 

 

It was the same argument as always, and Derek said the same things back. That he was fine, that he slept, ate, showered _pleaseshutupLuaraIsweartogod._

 

It never seemed to appease her, and next week, Laura would be back again with the same questions. No, next week would be even worse, thanks to the full moon. 

 

Derek swallowed down his groan of self-pity with hot, surgery coffee, and went back to pretending everything was fine. 

 

____________

 

"Not looking so hot for such a hottie. What's up Bubba-Gump?"

 

"Why the fuck are you calling me 'Bubba-Gump?" Derek growled, wishing—praying to someone to get the teacher back in the room and force the idiot to turn around. Stilinski, that was his name. He had heard the teacher yell it out often enough, now that he was paying more attention. 

 

"Cuz' there's something fishy about you and you like to run. Usually away from me," the kid replied, and for all his casual leaning over the back of his chair, he was oddly tense. Maybe he could sense Derek's change, a lot of humans could feel it subconsciously. 

 

_Quick, little monkeys, climb into your trees!_

 

And okay, Derek really did need to catch up on his sleep, especially before the full moon. 

 

"But seriously," the kid continued, "you're looking a little peaky. Need some chicken soup?" 

 

"Yeah, sure," Derek replied, putting on his sweet voice. "So why don't you pluck off those feathers and jump into some boiling water?" 

 

Stilinski just stared at him, and wow, if he had known calling him a chicken would have shut him up, that would have been his go-to insult from day one. 

 

The weirdo murmured, "Right... Yeah, I'll go do that, then," and turned around in his seat. 

 

He didn't speak to him again for the rest of the class, or in the hallway afterwards. 

 

In fact, Derek didn't even see him leave, which was weird because he could smell him around the halls, but didn't see a single hair on his annoying head. 

 

Whatever, maybe he finally got a clue, and at just the right time, too. Tonight was the full moon, and every minor irritation was enough to incite a full on bloodbath inside his mind. He wanted to snap limbs clean off, bash heads into walls, chew, and eat, and—

 

Derek let out a sharp breath, and hurried back to his room with his head down.

 

This was going to be a bad one. 

 

___________   

 

The sun was already setting by the time Derek got his door and windows locked. He was blessed with the opportunity to have his own room, thanks to his family's money, and had spent his last semester safely tucked away in here for every full moon and final's study session. 

 

It wasn't that he was dangerous during the full moon, really, he just wasn't exactly... Safe. 

 

Which is why the knock on his door nearly had him shifting before he could process it. 

 

"Derek?" A muffled voice called through the door. 

 

Willing his canines to recede, Derek approached the door with the intent to kindly tell them to fuck off, when the scent hit him. 

 

Of _course_ it was the weirdo, because fate hates him. 

 

"Stilinski, you better get out of here before I call the campus police and have you removed," he warned, flexing his fingers and trying—he was trying so hard not to wolf-out. 

 

He heard a long-withering sigh before the reply of, "that's what I get for cooking for you?"

 

"What's it going to take to get you off my back?"

 

"Not that I don't think you're back is a gorgeous canvas of muscle, but i'm not actually here for myself this time."

 

Derek openly scoffed at that, and leaned in to peer through the spy-hole. Stilinski was practically leaning against his door, his hands full with some big bowl of something wrapped up in a—towel? Was that a towel? He could smell it through the wood, chicken and spices mixing with the kid's usual sweet scent.

 

It smelled oddly good, actually, which only made the wolf kick up more of a fuss. It liked the prospect of easy food, especially now that he couldn't run around in the woods every full moon, hunting rabbits for food and sport. 

 

His claws were out and scratching at the wood of the door before he realized what he was doing. 

 

And he was listening to that stupid kid again, and as usual, it was messing up his life. 

 

"Dude, if you don't let me— _eep_!" 

 

Derek nearly smashed him in the face with the door when he slammed it open, and he almost wished he had. 

 

"This is over," Derek snarled, advancing in the kid like he just might hunt _him_ down like a rabbit. "i'm done with you. If you come near me again, i'm filing a harassment suit against you, and getting you thrown in jail." 

 

Stilinski sputtered uselessly for a minute, backing away until his back hit the wall on the far side of the hallway. 

 

"Wha—I wasn't harassing you, I just thought—"

 

"You'd bother me, again?" He hissed, pressing close enough to almost touch the bowl between them. "I've told you what I think about you, I've made it clear that you annoy the living fuck out of me, and yet you're still here. With your chicken fucking soup."

 

"W-well, I don't think the soup has the right equipment to fuck chickens, but—" 

 

Derek didn't even realize what he was doing until it was too late. His clawed-hand came down on the bowl, shattering it right out of the kid's hands. Hot soup splashed across his bare feet, and there was a choked off gasp from the body in front of him before his wolf backed off enough for him to focus. 

 

There really was soup everywhere, all down the kid's front, over his hands, and yes, it was burning Derek's feet. But he would heal, the kid wouldn't. 

 

"Oh shit."

 

And whatever else he was going to say died in his throat when Stilinksi's breath hitched, and Derek was assaulted by the stench of pain and something dark, and damp. Like the sorrow he sometimes caught on his sister when she thought he wasn't  paying attention. 

 

He really fucked up this time. 

 

And the kid bolted before he could say that, or anything else he might want to say. One second he was standing there, shaking and looking more fragile than Derek's ever seen him, and the next he was gone. 

 

Now the hallway just smelled like chicken soup, and despair. 

 

He _really_ fucked up. 

 

____________

 

Three days later, he found out his name was Stiles, and that he was on medical leave, and that no, Derek wasn't allowed to know which hospital it was. 

 

By then, everyone knew the story of how Stiles Stilinski slipped and fell with a bowl of hot soup in his hands—freshly reheated, as everyone made sure to explain—and ended up with a nice spread of burns down his stomach and parts of his legs. Apparently his hands were what got him sent to the hospital in the first place, when his roommate found him curled up in the shower under cold water, looking like he had lobster claws poking out of his sleeves. 

 

And Derek has never felt less hungry in his life, no matter how Laura pestered him after the full moon. 

 

He did that. He did that to him, and Stilinski—Stiles had lied about what happened and saved his ass. He didn't need to do that, he really shouldn't have done that. Harassment or not, the kid didn't deserved to be cooked like a—oh fuck, he had actually _told_ him to jump in a pot of boiling water. 

 

Derek wanted to die now, thank you very much. 

 

"What has you in a funk this week?" Laura asked. "Bad transition?"

 

Derek murmured his reply into the table, "No."

 

"Wait, you _did_ change, right? You have to do it every few months of so, or you'll get too antsy and one day... Bam, you're running across campus, eating drunken bimbos on their way back from yet another frat party." 

 

Derek wrinkled his nose and tried not to think about... pretty much everything she just said. 

 

After a few minutes of silence, Laura whispered, "Wow, you're really moping." 

 

"I'm not moping."

 

"So you're sitting there, face down on the table, because you're happy and full of sunshine?" 

 

"Sure."

 

"Shut up," she snapped, and shoved his head up from the table. He loved his sister, his evil witch of a sister. "Stop whatever this is, Der, because it's getting no one anywhere fast." 

 

And that was terribly, horribly true. He was going no where with this, other than sinking even further into the well of guilt that swallowed him up the second that bowl hit the floor. 

 

"Laura... I hurt somebody."

 

Laura's eyes went bigger than he's ever seen them before, and he could hear her nails grate against the underside of the table. 

 

"Derek, if you bit someone, so help me—"

 

"I didn't bite anyone, Jesus. I'd be calling you from the dark alley where I assume I bit said person, crying and trying not to throw up."

 

"That's not reassuring me at all," she argued, her eyes narrowing at him. "What did you? Is this to do with your moping?"

 

"I'm not _moping_!" 

 

Around them, the cafe went silent for several beats before every went back to their own business.  Right, public places don't make for secret arguments about possibly wolf-related things. 

 

"I...might have wolfed out a little bit at someone, and inadvertently got them... Burned."

 

"Oh my god, _you_ did that to Stiles?" She gasped. 

 

"What the hell?" He groused, banging his head back down on the table. "Does everyone know this guy?"

 

"He's sort of a local celebrity."

 

Derek promptly corrected her, "You mean local weirdo." 

 

"He's a sweet kid, and you're the world's biggest asshole, little bro." 

 

Derek titled his head just enough to glare at her past their coffee cups. She knew him better than to believe he actually meant to hurt the kid. 

 

Only, maybe he actually _was_ the world's biggest asshole, because he had once harbored some real intent on hurting him. With his words, anyway.

 

"Okay, maybe I am," he agreed, even more sullen now. Since when did he actively try to be an asshole? "He just aggravates me, and it was the full moon. You know how we get..."

 

Laura sighed and shook her head at him with motherly disappointment. The movement made Derek's nausea return almost instantaneously. That had always been his one, single dread as a child, to disappoint his mother—his family in general. And he really did fuck it all up. 

 

"I really didn't mean to hurt him," he whispered, desperate for her to understand. 

 

Looking down at his pathetic form, still half sprawled across the table, Laura snorted, "I'm not an idiot, Derek. I know when there's something bothering you, and it's not just this kid. Why'd you even go near him when you knew it was a bad time?"

 

"He smelled good," Derek blurted out, and immediately went back to hiding his face against the table. 

 

"He...? Oh my god—" Laura choked out a laugh, trying not-that-hard to stifle it. "You've been pulling his pig tails, haven't you? You're the worse, Der, the _worst_." 

 

"Oh shut up," he hissed into the table, refusing to lift his head until the blush was gone. 

 

So what if he thought Stiles smelled good, so did other people. Okay, maybe not _as_ good as the weirdo, but that's not some sign from above to... Shit. 

 

Above him, Laura hummed, "Did you know that your neck goes red when you're blushing over cute boys?" 

 

Derek wanted to hide under the table now. 

 

"I can't believe you dumped hot soup on Stiles to show him you like him."

 

"How about you shut up and tell me where he is, since you seem to be so close to him?" Derek snapped, jerking his head up from the table and focusing his best glare on her. 

 

Laura shrugged and pulled out her phone, tapping at the screen for a moment before smirking. 

 

" _The Stiles Watch_ has confirmed his return to his dorm room."

 

"'The Stiles Watch'? Okay, what the hell is—"

 

"It's a group of people who kind of take care of him, because he's _actually_ clumsy enough to spill a bowl full of hot soup all over himself—at least when there isn't idiot werewolves to do that for him. I might have subscribed to their Twitter list for entertainment purposes."

 

“So... you laugh at his plight?” Derek mused, wondering if he should follow it, too. “Which of us is horrible, again?”

 

“The one who dumped hot soup on him.”

 

“Just tell me where his dorm room is, so I can be less of an asshole.”

  
Laura seemed to be considering it, seriously, and that got the nausea worked up again. She didn't really think he'd—

 

“He's in the East Wing, room #203. His roommate’s, there, so don't go swooping in for the kill.”

 

“I'm not going to kill him, Laura,” he groused, shaking his head while he stood up. “God.”

 

“Learn to take a joke, little bro, you'll need it with him.”

 

And yeah, Derek was kind of getting that about him.

 

 

 

 

After a shower, and brushing his teeth, and changing into his nicer shirt, and checking himself over, and freaking out on the floor for a few minutes, then freaking out in the lobby of the East Wing for a few more minutes, Derek found himself in front of room #203, hand hovering by the door rather than knocking. All that, and he hadn't thought of what to say at all.

 

Something thumped on the other side of the door, and someone called out, “Scott, if that's you updating your friggen twitter feed about me, i'm going to shove that phone down your—“ The door swung open, sending Derek skittering back like a frightened deer. “Oh... you're not Scott.”

 

“I'm not Scott,” Derek repeated, and promptly wished for another table to hide under. Because he could smell the pain on him, even if it was much less potent than before. Stiles' hands were still bandaged up, and he looked even more ridiculous with the big, white glove things on his hands. “You look like Micky Mouse.”

 

 _God dammit_ , he was _not_ here to insult him.

 

For some reason, that made the kid grin up at him, like Derek didn't burn half his body and then show up to randomly call him names.

 

“I _know_ , right? Iv'e been talking in my best Micky Mouse voice since I got back. Hence me being alone right now, and Scott hiding in the cafeteria with Allison. I think I finally over-weirded him out with some of my commentary.” Stiles put his mitten-hands up and continued in a squeaky voice, “You talk in your sleep, Scott, and I don't need to hear about your sex fantasies with Allison—hoho!”

 

Derek was seriously starting to doubt his sister's logic. Did he really like this kid? Was there pig-tail pulling or was that a delusion on her part?

 

“You're so weird,” he said straight out.

 

“Uh huh, I know this.”

 

“Please stop using the Micky Mouse voice.”

 

Stiles visibly deflated, and let his hands drop. Derek was already fucking this up, and he'd only said about ten words so far.

 

“About the soup...” he began, trying not to curl in on himself or run away. Stiles had been right about that, at least, he did run away from his problems a lot. Maybe every time. “I really didn't mean to—um—hurt you, and i'm sure the soup was good, the cookies were really good, so—“

 

“You ate my cookies?” Stiles interrupted, rocking forward on his feet. His expression had done a complete 180, and was back to 'stupid grin' settings. “What'd you think? Good, huh?”

 

Derek glared at him in response. It was his natural setting. “I'm trying to apologize and you're asking about cookies?”

 

“But you liked, them, though,” Stiles confirmed, focused on the single thing. “You said that, no take-backs.”

 

It was getting to that point again, where Derek wanted to shut him up anyway possible. There had to be a better way than insulting him, because that was kind of no longer an option, not after his sister-educed epiphany. And realizing that Stiles really _did_ smell good, and maybe some of the stuff he's said since they met was a little funny, and Derek had been worried and freaking out since the soup-incident, which he did not do. Derek did not freak out like that, ever. He was calm, in control. He was—

 

“So are you going to give me a confirmation on this, or what? Because those cookies are my pride and joy. They're, like—uh—Mexican Wedding Cakes, I think? Super great for when you—are... what are you—?”

 

Derek pushed him through the door, and let it slam shut behind them. There was something off about his room, he could tell the moment they passed through the door. But, Stiles was already stumbling backwards towards one of the beds, looking confused and a little scared, and that captured all of his attention.

 

Scared was not what Derek wanted. Never again.

 

“I liked them,” he murmured, stalking after him. “I ate them all in one night, and then I had to deal with withdrawal symptoms for a week.”

 

That worried look on Stiles' face slipped away, once again, into an easy grin. It was amazing what a little compliment could do to his face, and Derek decided he liked the goofy smiles better then those flashes of hurt he usually got. And a whole lot better than the fear.

 

 _What_ was _that other smell, though?_

 

“I'll make some more for you when my hands are Micky-free.”

 

“How can I ever repay you?” Derek asked, only half teasing. He was standing over him now, even since Stiles plopped down on the bed and began staring up at him with the same, foolish grin on his face. He smelled like fear, still, but it was mixed with something else, now. Something heady, and sweet, and a little dangerous.

 

And whatever that other scent was. It didn't seem to be coming from Stiles, though, so it didn't matter.

 

“Well, you could buy me a new bowl,” Stiles offered, knowing damn well Derek meant something more than that. His grin was getting too smug for him not to pick up on it. “Or, you know, you could... do whatever you're planning on doing there...”

 

It was Derek's turn to grin now, more feral than Stiles', and maybe he should have been paying better attention, because Stiles went still below him, and the scent of fear sharpened once again.

 

“What? What did I do?” He asked, pulling back instantly. Had he touched him wrong? No, he barely had a hand on Stiles' shoulder before he—

 

“Dude, your eyes are glowing _blue_.”

 

_Shit._

 

_Shit shit shit shit shit!_

 

Derek ducked away, forcing himself to calm down. It was easier said than done, and the mixture of scents in the air wasn't helping. He _wanted_ Stiles, and it was horribly obvious at this point that his wolf did, too.

 

Which no one was supposed to know about.  
  
“Hey, are you okay?” and there was a hand on his shoulder now, making an attempt at turning him around. But that other scent, the wrong one, the not-Stiles one, was stronger now. Derek narrowed his eyes at the other bed, and sniffed. It was coming from there, which meant it was whoever that Scott person was. Why did he smell so off?

 

“Who is Scott?” he gritted out, taking another step closer to the bed while ignoring Stiles' attempts at pulling him back.

 

“What?” he squeaked from behind him. “He's my friend, dude, my roommate. Why do you even care, and what does this have to do with your shiny... eyes... wait...”

 

And that was the sound of Stiles figuring something out, but it didn't matter, because Derek was realizing something on his own.

 

“He's a—”

“You're a werewolf!?”

 

Derek spun around, baring his teeth at the kid without caring how much it scared him. He _knew_ , he knew and his best friend was one too, and no wonder Derek got pissed around him all the time, he didn't quite smell right. He didn't smell like _mine_.

 

“Did you know from the beginning?” he accused him, no longer bothered by the fear coming off of Stiles in waves.

 

Stiles squeaked, “ _No_! I swear—dude, stop snarling at me, seriously, I didn't have a clue until just now with the eyes, which is cool, by the way, because my friend's eyes are yellow and your's are this nice blue and i'm going to shut up now and back away slowly. Don't eat me.”

 

Derek puffed out a laugh when he didn't sense a single lie in all that babble. He really hadn't known, and he really thought his eyes were nice.

 

Well then.

 

“I have a problem with this,” Derek said, trying to keep the growl out of his voice, and failing. Stiles did that deflating thing again, sagging back down onto his own bed and purposefully looking anywhere but Derek.

 

“Right, of course... well, it's not like we even have a 'this', anyway, so...” he trailed off, sounding more and more miserable by the second. “I'll leave you alone from now on. I get it, I know i'm... everyone thinks i'm annoying.”

 

Stiles let out a bitter laugh, and fell silent again. Derek kind of wished he had interrupted him before he got to that laugh, because it psychically hurt him to hear it, and now anything he could say would sound pitying and wrong.

 

Frowning, Derek knelt down in front of Stiles, and tilted his chin up to get a good look at him. He really was miserable, and not even trying to hide it anymore.

 

“You like me,” Derek stated, watching the guy's pupils widen.

 

“I thought that was pretty obvious by now,” he snapped back. “Look, I get it, you don't like me, maybe you're not even into guys, I probably got the wrong signals, and—“

 

“I have a problem,” Derek began, speaking right over him. “With my attitude. I have a problem talking about stuff. I have a problem... figuring out.. emotions sometimes.”

 

Stiles let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like, ' _All_ the time.'

 

“But I also have a problem with you smelling like another wolf,” he continued, removing his hand from Stiles' chin. “Which is why all three of those other problems have been more problematic lately.”

 

Stiles blinked at him for quite a while after that, something slowly sliding into place and clicking.

 

“You—oh! Oh, oh oh, it's me, you like _me_ , you don't like Scott smell!” he burst out, flailing his mitten-hands around.

 

“It's been driving me nuts, and I didn't know why,” Derek explained, ducking as Stiles flailed even more. At least it was happy flailing, not angry flailing. Just as dangerous, he imagined.

 

He finally settled enough to not be a danger to himself and others, and went back to grinning at Derek like the sun shined out of his ass. And, really, Derek was kind of happy and full of sunshine right now. Laura would be so proud.

 

“Soooo, what do we do now?” Stiles asked, leg wiggling, hands twitching, eagerness written all over his face. “How do I un-smell like Scott?”

 

His first answer was a kiss, a simple press of the lips that morphed into a little more open mouth, lip-nibbling, moan-educing tongue play that left them panting and clinging to one another.

 

Stiles puffed out, “That's... yeah, good answer.”

 

“Now about Scott and your scent,” Derek murmured, distracted by the breathless sound of their voices. “How do you feel about switching rooms next semester?”

 

“I would have to make it up to him with lots of baking, and you'll have to put up with me, like, 24/7, and we'll probably only need one bed, but yeah, hell yeah. I'm totally up for that.”

 

“Good,” Derek purred, cupping Stile's face in his hands. “Very good.”

 

“That's _very good—”_ he made air quotes, “ _—_ and all, but can we go back to that first answer there? That's better.”

 

“God, you're so _annoying_ ,” Derek sighed against his lips.

 

“And you're the sweetest asshole on campus,” Stiles shot back, his stupid, weirdo smile ruining the kiss. “Congrats.”

 

 


End file.
